A Sea of Blue Flowers
by Trueloveseyeroll
Summary: All his life, Killian has been nothing but the witch's son. At sixteen, he gets the chance to befriend Emma Swan, a street urchin in the village, and it's more than he had ever dared hope for. But sometimes people are just too used to being on their own. A lieutenant duckling AU set in a fantasy realm.
1. The Witch's Son

**Summary: All his life, Killian has been nothing but the witch's son. At sixteen, he gets the chance to befriend Emma Swan, a street urchin in the village, and it's more than he had ever dared hope for. But sometimes people are just too used to being on their own.**

 **Author's note: This started out as a tiny idea wherein Killian was the son of a witch, and then it became, well, this. A four part story of about 18000 words - good thing is, I've already written it. The rest of the chapters just need some editing, but you can expect quick updates!**

* * *

Killian bit his lip. The knife was steady in his hand, tracing the lines he had drawn on the wooden bead. It was about the size as half of his thumb.

As a child, Killian had practiced his precision when carving images in beads. Now sixteen, the art entranced him as much as watching the sea did.

Killian started carving the bird's eye. On the other side of the den, behind her bookcase, his mother's cauldron was bubbling. The scent of mint filled the room. She was mixing an elixir against coughing, most likely based on fluxweed. And mint, of course.

Bookcases enclosed his own nook of the den. They trapped the sunlight that fell through the window, warming Killian in his seat. Odd trinkets and books with cracked spines filled the shelves.

On his well-worn desk was a wooden box, one he had carved when he was thirteen. It was full of wooden beads, each with different symbols; some were omens of love, others of good health or a prosperous future. His mother said his carving was a magic in itself. He knew the only real magic came from the charms she laced them with.

Killian blew away the gathering wood dust before grabbing a thinner blade to fully hollow out the eye. Next came the lines of the thick beak that characterized the albatross. The bird was a symbol of freedom and good fortune amongst sailors - or so he had once heard when sneaking in to the tavern in the village, just to get a glimpse of another life. He would never dare admit to his mother, how much time he actually spent in that tavern.

The bubbling stopped.

"Killian, are you set to leave? I have the last potion bottled and ready."

With a sigh, Killian left the bead unfinished on the table. He left the fine, small knife as well; he had a dagger tucked in a sheath on his belt. Not that he'd ever need it.

Althea put the last elixir into the basket on the table, closing the lid as Killian came to the front door.

The boy grabbed his cloak from its hook and fastened it around his neck. Althea had made it of a dark, heavy cloth, and fashioned it with several hidden pockets. Wearing it had always felt like being enveloped in a piece of home, and he had cherished it from the moment she gave it to him on his fourteenth birthday. _"A young man must have a strong cape if he wishes to make his way in the world."_

Despite proclaiming him a young man, Althea had no trouble with still treating him like a little boy. Only his height was in her way. She beckoned him down to her level so she could kiss his forehead.

"There's a storm on its way, so be home before nightfall, will you? It wouldn't do for you to be caught up in it." Her wide eyes looked huge on her wrinkled face. He wasn't sure of her age, but his mother had never looked old in Killian's eyes - she looked like she always did.

"Aye, mum, worry not. I can handle it." He had been running her errands for six years; he could handle them and a little storm just fine. Her obvious worry for him amused him though. It warmed his heart as well, and he bowed down once more to return a kiss on her brow before leaving with the basket in hand.

All his life, Killian had lived with his mother in a three-story cottage on the top of a hill. Isolated, they could see the village and the ocean in the distance.

He took the narrow path through the trees, down steep steps created by roots. The hill sloped into a small valley of rocks and tall grass, where the path was naught but a thin line left uncluttered and barren. Few ever walked there but him. It must have been ages since his mother left for the village. Perhaps she was too frail to make it down the rocky hill now, but he must have been ten the last time she did.

Magic was not shunned and witches were not hunted, tortured or burned at stake. Not for the past century at least. But they weren't welcome in normal society either. Sure, when an elixir was needed for a cough or a trinket needed to ward off rats, they were eager to ask his mother for help. But they'd never dream of talking to her or laughing with her. They would just throw their money at her and shut the door.

Company must have been way too rare before she took him in as an infant. Now the life of judgmental looks and shut doors was Killian's to share. At least the villagers took kinder to him than they did his mother. At least he didn't have magic. He couldn't turn anyone into a toad with a mere glare (even though that would have been a handy gift).

In the village his job was simple. Althea had a list of which costumers had ordered what, and handing off merchandise and taking payment was easy enough. The costumers were usually the same - hardly everyone trusted magic after all, and only those who did ever sought Althea for help.

When the basket was empty and the pouch full, Killian set off for the town market. At home they had a kitchen garden next to the herb garden and a hen house as well. Flour and fish were a bit harder to come by on the hilltop though.

The tavern wasn't far away from the market square - maybe he could buy a cup of ale and just sit in the corner, take everything in. Or he could make a short walk down to the cliff.

Dark clouds loomed on the horizon. Perhaps it was best if he just went home instead.

Then a merchant cried out.

"Thief! Thief! That rat bloody stole my bread! _Thief!_ "

Killian's spine ran cold. His mind urged his legs to run; dash through the crowd and never look back.

But he hadn't stolen anything. Everything in his basket was paid for with honest coin. But the witch's son was always easy to blame.

Killian dared a look over his shoulder. The merchant kept roaring thief, demanding the guards act quicker. He was pointing at a girl running away as best as she could, weaving through the crowd. Killian only caught a glimpse of tangled blonde hair.

With as much calm as he could muster, he scurried away from the market as well. There would be hell to pay if he ended up in some sort of trouble that had nothing to do with him in the first place.

He didn't walk along the broad cobbled road for long. Instead he turned a corner and wandered through the desolate, small alleys with the narrow paths and bleak façades.

As much as he prided himself on being ever-observant, Killian nearly stumbled when he turned yet another corner.

His eyes were quick to take in what had almost tripped him. Or rather, _who_.

She was probably around his age. She lay on the ground, leaning against the house behind her with a grimace. He saw the bread lying beside her in a muddy puddle, the twisted ankle that had almost felled him, her tattered clothes, the dirt on her face, _her tangled blonde hair_.

She was the thief.

Killian froze for a second. Not because he minded the proximity of lower criminals, no.

He had never seen anyone so stunning.

Even lying on the ground, clearly beat, there was a strength in her eyes. Something else too - something familiar. She looked the way he imagined he did, ready for someone to wrinkle their nose at him, tell him he didn't belong, that he would be better off gone.

Well, he wouldn't wrinkle his nose at her. He'd do nothing of the sort.

"Can I offer you some help, love?"

"No," she said, sparing him a single glance. "I'm just fine where I am, thanks." She let her head drop back against the wall and closed her eyes. She clearly expected him to step over her leg and walk on.

"Are you sure, love?"

She kept her stance.

"Yes. And don't call me 'love'," she added.

"Well then, milady, what should I call you?" Killian bounced on his heels with a grin, the image of a prompt knight. She glared at him, but at least he'd gotten her to open her eyes again. He quite admired their shade of green.

"Nothing. And definitely not 'milady'. Just go. Please," she added with a wry smile and a tilt of her head.

"Listen, you might wish to deny it, but that ankle looks near sprained. My mother could heal it; she's quite skilled when it comes to that. And I bet she'd be willing to do it free of charge."

" _You_ listen - I can handle myself, I don't need your pity or 'free of charge' help."

"I'm not offering you pity, I'm offering to be a gentleman; because my mother will surely cuff my head if she learns I left you here with a storm rolling in. So really, it's not to help you; it's to save my own skin."

She just looked at him at that. Scrutinized him.

His reasons had meant to be appealing. Maybe he had gone about it the wrong way. Now it felt like she was trying to open up his head and see what lay inside.

A squirm crawled under his skin.

Instead he straightened his back - if she wanted a look inside his head, he'd let her have it. If only it would get her off the bloody ground and into a warm house with some actual food that wasn't covered in mud.

"You're the witch's son, aren't you?"

He had not expected that. Usually people just knew. They would acknowledge it with their eyes, judge him and size him, but never dare ask. The way she looked at him now was different though. There was wonder, but no judgement.

"Aye." He had no clue of what else to say and suddenly felt incredibly dumb.

"She lives all the way up the hill, doesn't she? How do you expect me to get there with a twisted ankle? Offering to carry me, are you?"

What, was the thought of him carrying her really that laughable? He would have admired her smile if he hadn't been too busy nursing his bruised ego.

"I thought perhaps we could make it with some team effort."

A pause settled.

"Alright."

Had his ears tricked him?

The girl made to get up, steadying herself with her hands against the wall behind her. Killian offered his hand to her instead. She looked at it for a second, the gears turning in her head behind her eyes.

She took it.

Killian couldn't help a small smile from showing.

With her arm slung over his shoulder, and his hand steadying her on her hip (she had seemed ticklish when he first tried to grab her waist), they made their way through the village to the small valley. They huddled along, doing their best to scout the widest and most even path amongst the stones and tall grass. His cape was awkwardly wedged over his left shoulder, the basket in his right hand.

"My name's Killian by the way. Killian Jones," he broke the silence when it dawned on him that they had skipped the usual formalities.

"Jones? I didn't expect the witch to be called something so... I don't know, short? Normal? I guess I imagined something more like Moonseed or Emerald or Blackwood... or Darktoad."

"Darktoad? A bit prejudiced, aren't you?" Killian grinned. He carried on, trying to maintain a serious tone, "her name's Althea Grimsbane - now that's not at all what you'd expect of a witch's name."

The girl let out a puff of laughter. Killian's next step was given a small bounce of pride.

"She named me Jones because she found me by the beach as an infant, 'as if I'd been washed up from Davy Jones' locker', she says."

Only when the girl remained silent, did Killian wonder if perhaps that was too much to share. Did he sound too self-pitying by mentioning his abandonment as a baby? She probably knew of worse consequences than being taken in by a witch.

He opened his mouth, not really sure of what to say - maybe some off-handed joke about the chances of him being a changeling - but she cut him off.

"You can call me Swan."

 _Swan_. He tested it on his tongue for a second. It suited her. Her blonde hair, her charming eyes, her stubbornness - _especially_ her stubbornness.

"Alright then, Swan. Ready for a little climb?"

Getting up the hill to the cottage wasn't easy and it was hardly fast-going. Swan did her best though. Sometimes she couldn't stop a gasp or a grunt from slipping her mouth, but she didn't complain once. She just took a deep breath and tightened her grip on Killian's shoulder. It was tough, but he didn't mind one bit.

They made it to the cottage just before the clouds darkened the entire sky. The door was unlocked as always. Who would ever dare steal from a witch?

"You can sit here," Killian helped Swan over to the well-cushioned couch by the fire place. "I'll go find my -"

"Killian, I told you to be home before nightfall! A few minutes more and you might have resembled a drowned rat!" Althea came through the doors of the kitchen. Her scolding abruptly stopped when she noticed Swan on the couch, sitting so rigidly you would never have guessed how soft the sofa actually was.

Killian took his chance to speak while his mother's mouth still hung wide open.

"Sorry, mum, I was just assisting Swan here. She's twisted her ankle quite badly and I thought you could be of help."

"Why of course, darling!" The witch scuffled over to Swan. She greeted her with a warm smile and quickly lit the logs in the fire place with a flick of her hand.

Swan was tongue-tied. She managed a smile though. Althea needed no more and stooped to look at the bruised ankle, gently touching it to see what damage needed remedying.

"Killian, dear, will you tend to the soup while I fix Swan's ankle?"

He didn't fancy being dismissed. He looked at Swan, silently asking if she minded being left alone with the witch.

She lifted the corner of her mouth.

With a curt nod, more to himself than anyone, Killian unfastened his cloak, hung it on its hook and went to the kitchen.

"First I'll apply some salve to relieve some of the pain, then I can..." the rest of Althea's words were inaudible as Killian went into their small pantry to stow away his purchases. The soup was simmering over a home-made stove, lit with one of Althea's flames. There wasn't much tending for him to do.

His mother spoke softly to Swan but he couldn't distinguish the words, nor could he understand Swan's replies. At least she seemed comfortable. She had looked much like someone ready to bolt through the door when he first showed her to the couch. She probably would have if it weren't for her ankle.

Killian brought the pot of soup to the dining table in the den just as the light disappeared underneath Althea's palm. Swan was now in possession of a magically healed ankle.

"I hope you don't mind mushroom soup, love. I did make quite a lot - almost as if I sensed a guest coming our way." Althea waved the bowls and spoons out of their cupboard and set them on the table, humming a merry tune. The table had rarely been set for more than two -if ever. The gleam in his mother's eyes wasn't one he saw often either.

Swan looked more skittish than merry. Perhaps she loathed mushroom soup, but it was somehow doubtful that her eyes were flickering from Althea, to him and lastly the door because of a lumpy broth.

"You've already helped me enough, and I'm thankful for it. But my ankle's fine now, I can walk back to village."

"Nonsense, darling. That ankle needs a bit of rest and I reckon you need a bit of food. It's really no trouble for us at all."

"I..."

Killian studied the way her eyes longed for the door. He waited quietly for her decision, but she couldn't seem to find any words to properly argue Althea.

Rain battered against the windows - the storm had finally come to their door. Swan would have to physically fight Althea if she still wished to leave.

"I insist you stay, love - I can hardly send you out in this weather! Now come and eat. There's a bedroom upstairs next to Killian's, warm and ready to welcome you with a good night's rest."

Killian could almost hear the cogs turning in Swan's head. Maybe she was afraid of staying the night in a witch's cottage? He knew for certain most of the villagers would be. But she didn't seem frightened, not like that. Sure, her flickering eyes and rigid posture made it plain that she didn't trust them, but not because of who they were - it was their offer that troubled her. A place to stay. A piece of their home.

Judging from the fact that she stole bread to survive, that she didn't seem to mind lying in an alley for who knows how long, Killian presumed she wasn't much used to having people care for her.

"Okay." It was a quiet word, but more than enough to make Killian smile. "I guess there's no reason not to stay."

She probably had many.

Supper was fairly quiet at the table. The slurping of soup accompanied the rain and the wind howling through the windows. Fortunately, they had a crackling fireplace in their favour.

Once Emma had taken her last spoonful of soup, Althea sent the pot and bowls to the kitchen with a flick of her wrist. The broom by the door woke to life and started sweeping the floor by itself. Just like always. But the awe in Swan's face made him look anew at the magic surrounding him.

(And perhaps he chanced a second glance at her awestricken face too.)

Althea went about the house fixing up things here and there. Killian's fingers started itching for something to do as well. Instead of fiddling with his thumbs, he got up to retrieve the bead he had been working on in his nook. The knife too.

Swan was fidgeting with the tablecloth when he sat back down. He was well aware of the way her eyes fixed on him as he started carving the ruffled feathers of the albatross' wings.

"What's that?"

"Ah, it's a wooden bead," Killian grinned. She tilted her head at him, unamused.

"I carve symbols in them - different omens - and my mother charms them to fulfil the purpose of their omen. For instance I'm carving a bird in this one - an albatross. It could be a symbol of freedom I reckon, but I once heard sailors describe it as a sign of good fortune."

"Does it really work?"

"Doubting a witch's magic, are you?" Killian teased. "Well, not really, no. You'll need powerful magic if you truly wish to lace a bead with good fortune, good health, good looks or something akin to that. They're not complete fraudulence, but I doubt they could change the course of your life."

Killian scratched a last ruffle in the albatross' wing and studied the finished bead in the light. Intricate lines adorned the top and bottom of the bead, giving it a well-rounded quality.

He could sense Swan trying to get a glimpse of his work. He laid the bead on the table in front of her and made to stand, meaning to fetch an uncarved bead. She took it in her hand and studied it.

"It's beautiful," she said, keeping her eyes on the bead, rolling it between her fingers.

Her words did something to him. Her approval, somehow it just warmed him.

"Why, thank you very much, Swan."

* * *

Morning greeted Killian with a ray of sunshine on his bed, a big contrast to the heavy rain he had fallen asleep to. For a moment he just lay there. He let himself soak in the sun, let the memories of yesterday run through his mind.

 _Swan._

Should he let her sleep or wake her up? He stood at the top of the stairs contemplating the question for a minute. Finally, he made up his mind.

There was no answer to his knock on the door. Not the first, second or third time.

A sinking feeling formed in Killian's gut. When he opened the door and found what he had expected, the feeling didn't stop though. It just plummeted to the bottom of his stomach.

She had left. Probably as soon as the sun had risen.

The room showed no sign of any guest ever being there. It didn't make sense why it hurt so much. It wasn't like they had become friends; it wasn't like anything big had happened between them. He had simply helped her, nothing more.

At a second sweeping glance, the room didn't lack all sign of her as he had initially thought. A small note lay on the pillow of the bed.

Killian took the scrap of paper in his hands and looked long at the scribbled letters.

 _Thanks._

A hastily drawn swan decorated the corner. It wasn't very beautiful, but Killian smiled nonetheless.

And if he tucked the note in his pocket to keep, well, no one would ever have to know.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading!**


	2. The Street Urchin

He had been right to forego the heavy cloak. The thick fabric was at a disadvantage on a day like this, when the sun had no clouds to hide behind, high in the sky. Sweat was prickling at his neck. If only the woman would choose a charm and be done with it, so he could get away from her door, away from the sun. Was she really so blind to the heat in the shadow of her doorway?

Rushing her to choose a bead was a mistake though. The woman scowled at him and slammed the door in his face. At least she had already paid for the potion she had ordered.

Relief flooded through Killian. His errands were over, the last supplies handed off. This was his fourth trip to the village during the past three weeks, but the first time he had had to deal with customers. And what a jolly lot they were.

His steps led him to the market square. It was full of people today, all chatting loudly, bustling about, shoving each other and glaring at anyone who dared shove them in return. It seemed the heat had irritable effects on others than Killian.

He kept an eye out for several things. They needed more glass phials at home for instance, and a few ingredients for cooking. Most of all he kept an eye out for a flash of blonde hair. He hadn't seen that particular shade _once_ during his four trips to the village the past three weeks. Perhaps he wasn't looking hard enough. Perhaps she had left the village all together.

A table full of charts, quills, bottles of ink, and interesting instruments caught his attention. Killian didn't have the money or the need for any of it, but stars had always seemed fascinating. What would it be like to immerse himself in the night sky? Plot down the stars' positions, study their movements. He had a favourite book at home, full of stories about different constellations. Its spine was well-cracked, no matter how hard Killian tried to take care of it.

He walked on through the crowd.

A merchant spewed praise of his cheese, but the whiff that Killian caught was nothing but foul. Like sweat and mold in one. A group of children ran back and forth from a stand, trying on the different hats, laughing when the seller chased them away. Some merchants sold ale that looked like piss. Some sold parasols too expensive, yet too tempting in the summer heat.

On the other side of the square a man showed off his parrots. Brightly coloured, they flew about, over the heads of his audience. The people ducked and cheered.

A flash of blonde hair caught his vision.

No.

It was just a glimpse, it couldn't be...

Someone shoved Killian to the side. His eyes were too busy searching through the crowd for another glimpse of the blonde girl; he lost his footing. He almost toppled over, stumbling into a woman's stand by his side, crashing down her neatly stacked crates. The lids stayed on, thank the gods. And the wood seemed undamaged when the boxes finally stilled on the ground.

Killian went rigid with trepidation. He'd made a real mess of things.

Fortunately, his mind was quick to kick in.

"I sincerely apologize, ma'am, here, let me help," Killian stooped to the ground to quickly help the woman restack the crates. She said nothing, just glared at him. She allowed his help though, refusing to do any lifting herself.

"What d'you think you're doing, boy?" Killian set the first crate back on its place and looked up to see a large man storming towards him. His face was red underneath his beard, his eyes burning with anger and suspicion. "You trying to steal from me, eh? Trying to lay a hand on me wife as well?"

A brute sort of fellow. One of those men always looking to show his might, always looking for someone to swing his fist at - Killian had seen plenty of his type in the tavern.

"I apologize; I was merely trying to help -"

The woman snorted. "Yeah, you were the one who knocked it all over in the first place!" she spat at him. Killian had had sympathy towards her for being married to that brute pig, but on second thought, it seemed they suited each other quite well.

"You little brat..." the man came closer. He intended to tower over Killian, and though Killian was fairly tall, he was certainly smaller than this giant. He didn't fancy the idea of brawling or in any way interacting with the brute. Perhaps punching him in the face would be satisfactory, but he doubted it would end well for him.

Facing a beating for an honest mistake wasn't something Killian looked forward to. So he opened his mouth to argue, and then did what any sensible person would do - he ran.

He weaved his way through the crowd, the basket awkwardly hanging in the crook of his elbow.

Then he saw her again. She was waving at him, waving at him to join her by the narrow alleyway.

Swan.

She bid him follow her with another wave and he gladly did. Behind him the husband was yelling curses. Killian dared a look over his shoulder, seeing a guard making his way through the crowd, running after him.

Killian pushed his legs to run faster.

He followed Swan as she led him through the many different alleys; always close enough to see her turning corners, but never catching up with her.

At the corner of the village closest to the cliff, Swan finally stopped running. They hadn't been able to hear their pursuers for a while. Hopefully it meant they were safe - they could stop and catch their breath.

Killian took a moment to bend over, his hands on his knees. He should practice running more often.

As he regained his breath, a laugh tumbled out of Killian's mouth.

"That was bloody brilliant, Swan! I think you just saved my life."

A smile made its way to Swan's face. Killian noticed a little blush creeping into her cheeks. The sight reminded him why this girl had been stuck in his head for the past three weeks.

"I could hardly leave you to your death," she lifted her shoulder in a modest shrug. "What were you even trying to steal anyway? And why from a giant like that - got something you want to prove?"

"I _wasn't_ trying to steal anything! I'd have done better than that if I were."

Swan smiled as if she knew some secret that he didn't. She was teasing him.

"I just knocked over a woman's stack of crates. I was trying to help her restack them and the next thing I knew her husband was out for my blood."

"What an ass."

"A big git for sure."

For a moment, the silence went unacknowledged. They stood there, grinning at each other, sharing a dislike of the brute. It was like time had frozen for a split second. Then Swan seemed to remember herself and so did he, with a scratch behind his ear.

"Glad to see your ankle's doing well."

"Yeah... thanks again for all that." She avoided his eyes, looking at her ankle instead as she rolled her foot from side to side.

"I reckon it was a touch of destiny. If you were walking around with a broken ankle you'd hardly have been able to save me just now, so I guess we've come full circle."

"In other words: now we're even."

"Aye. Now we're even."

The sound of rippling seas finally made it through Killian's haze. His face lit up even brighter than before. He hadn't noticed how close to the ocean they were.

With a nod towards the grass behind him - open ground leading away from the village - Killian grinned at Swan. "Come, follow me."

He turned around before he had a chance to see her reaction.

It took a few paces before he heard her following. He hadn't at all been sure if she would, but her choice certainly delighted him.

Together they made it to the cliff overlooking the ocean - one of Killian's favourite spots. The fresh air from the sea felt heaven-sent under the burning sun, and the water looked as blue as ever, only a few shades darker than the sky.

Killian plopped down in the grass, dropping the basket as he did. Swan followed suit a few feet to his right. She sat with her legs folded in under each other. He leaned back on his hands.

A gentle peace settled over them as Swan plucked the grass in front of her. She built a small pile out of it, with red clovers, daises and other wildflowers too.

Killian was content just looking at the ocean, studying the small waves and the light foam, soaking in the sun. He hadn't felt this at peace for a long time. His mother had always let him explore the coast - encouraged him even. _"You belong to the sea, love; I'm only borrowing you for a little while."_ Having some company for once was nice. Even if they didn't talk.

That is, until Swan broke the silence.

"My name is Emma. Emma Swan"

He angled his head to look at her. _Emma_. He had honestly thought he'd be calling her Swan forever. He liked Swan - it suited her. But he really liked Emma too. Hearing her real name, it was like finally finding the answer to a problem or putting in the last piece to a puzzle. That same joy.

 _Emma Swan._

Killian turned towards her and held out his hand.

"Nice to meet you, Emma."

She breathed a laugh and rolled her eyes at him, but nonetheless took his hand in hers and shook it. A spark ran through Killian's palm, warming its way through his arm to his chest.

It felt like the time when he was five and had accidentally opened a bottle of fairy dust. Sparkly dirt, he had called it. It had tickled his hand, gone through his skin and straight to his heart. Althea had been so frustrated with him. He had wasted perfectly good fairy dust. Killian had been too busy laughing at the joy the dust inflicted though. Much like he now was too busy enjoying the rush of sparks going through his hand to notice the look that crossed Emma's face as she pulled her hand away from him.

"Nice to meet you too, Killian."

They talked idly for a little while. Emma asked if he often sat here by the sea. He spoke of how it calmed him to look at the horizon, to hear the waves crash against the shore. Out here he could just be.

"Is this where Althea found you?" The small pile of grass was rapidly growing in front of her and he could hear the hesitance in her voice. Had he looked at her face, he would've seen a longing in her eyes. A longing for many things, but right now, she just wanted to hear him speak. Hear him tell her about his life. She wanted to know him.

"Aye, she found me as a babe, lying in a patch of grass down by the shore, a bit out there," Killian pointed to his left, towards the long strand of never-ending beach. "For some reason she decided to take me back to her cottage - maybe she saw her chance to raise an errand boy. Nonetheless she gave me a home."

A silence settled once more. It wasn't as comfortable as it had been before, but Killian sensed that Emma needed it. He could practically feel her gathering her thoughts. Whatever she ended up saying to him, be it about her own beginnings or a comment on the weather, Killian waited patiently for her to speak.

"She just took you in and never gave you up again." Killian was unsure if she meant it as a question or a mere statement.

"Aye."

Emma started picking at the grass again.

"I was found in a baby blanket with my name on it behind a baker's house. They took me in for a few years, but I'd hardly be stealing bread, lying alone in an alley and sleeping in the house of a stranger if I still lived in that bakery." She tore the grass out of the ground with more and more force. "I was too much trouble for them. Like I must have been too much trouble for my parents. A baby blanket and a name - that was all they bothered giving me. I guess that's at least more than what your parents gave you."

Her trust in him was overwhelming - but in a good way. He couldn't help the anger that rose in him, anger towards the people who ever let her think she was too much trouble. He wouldn't tell her though. He wouldn't interrupt her, wouldn't word the sorrow he felt on her behalf. She didn't need his pity; she just needed someone to listen to her for once. Killian would gladly be that someone.

"I'm sorry," Emma shook her head, shoving away the pile of grass. "Didn't mean to bore you with some tragic tale; I'm fine now, so it doesn't matter anyway. You're just... you're just easy to talk to, I guess. You haven't used any magic on me, have you?"

 _I'm pretty sure you're the one who's bewitched me, Swan._

"Afraid not - I just tend to have that effect on people." It was more of a joke than the actual truth. Other than her, Killian had never actually gotten past judgmental or fearful looks when it came to new acquaintances. Not for a lack of trying - at least when he was younger. "And I don't at all mind hearing of your past, Swan."

"How about you tell me a bit about you and I tell you a bit about me?"

In only a few minutes, Emma had offered Killian more friendship than he had ever dared hope for. That he was sitting here, talking to her at all was hard to wrap his head around. He certainly hadn't expected it when he went to the village that afternoon.

"Sounds good to me."

Killian ended up talking about the ocean again. "I'd say my biggest dream is to be out on the open sea, sailing around the world, visiting different realms. Discovering places I'd never even dream of imagining and going on adventures like the ones I read about at home."

Emma smiled, as if imagining herself in his fantasy.

"That's a good dream."

She spoke of the different villages she had lived in, never dwelling on any of them for more than two sentences. She had been in this village for almost half a year now. Sometimes she'd steal food; other times she had enough money to pay, from her job cleaning up at the lonely blacksmith's. Killian wondered to himself how long she was going to stay.

They got caught up in conversations about whether or not Killian could actually steal from a town market, what kind of injuries either of them had had (other than a sprained ankle). The sun started sinking into the sea before the bubble they had created burst. He should be going home soon. He could handle Althea's scolding, but he didn't want to worry her too much.

Emma noticed how low the sun was as well; it was like a mutual thought that passed between them.

"You should probably get back home if you want to avoid 'having your head cuffed' or something."

"Aye. Would you like to occupy the spare bed again?"

Emma shook her head, just as he had guessed she would.

"Nah, I've found a nice place in the loft of an old house. It's pretty cozy. And it's not at the top of a hill full of rocks and other things to trip over."

"I suppose that does beat my offer." The bits he had managed to chip off of Emma's walls were enough for now.

They looked at the horizon for a moment more, taking in the vibrant colours of the sunset. They didn't stay to see the sun disappear though; Killian was on his way up the hill before that finally happened.

Emma said her goodbye when they reached the village, indicating that her 'place' was in another direction than his. Before she left, Killian took the chance to ask her the question on his mind.

"Do you think we'll see each other again? Preferably without either of us having been accused of thievery."

Emma shared his smile as she slowly backed away from him. It grew into that smile again, the one that made it look like she knew a secret that he didn't.

"Maybe."

* * *

Emma and Killian met more than several times during the next month. Usually, Killian only had errands to run every third week or so, but he spent nearly every day at the village. Or at the beach. And he always had the pleasure of Emma's company.

"So, I know you're your mother's errand boy, you spend a strangely large amount of time staring at the sea, and you like carving in wood. And reading. Anything else you like doing?" Emma asked one day when they were walking along the beach. It was a rocky shore, yet they had both taken off their shoes and were walking right where the waves washed up and covered their feet. It was cold at first, but they got used to it.

Killian picked up a round and flat rock, running his thumb over the surface.

"I skip stones from time to time when I get too bored of staring." He whipped the rock onto the waves. It skipped the surface thrice before plummeting to the bottom. He picked up another fine stone and offered it to her.

It barely skipped once.

Killian tried not to laugh too much at her look of disappointment. "It takes a bit of practice."

"Maybe I should practice skipping them on your head," she mumbled, fully intending for him to hear her.

He pretended not to.

After a while of skipping stones, laughing at each other's' failures but cheering once they made more than two skips, Killian thought of another of his pastimes.

"Sometimes I visit the tavern in the village too."

"Aren't you a bit too young to be drinking away your problems?"

"I may have a youthful glow, but my soul is old, Swan. And I'll have you know, the goings-on in a tavern are quite entertaining."

Emma snorted at first, but then seemed to change her mind. "You'll have to show me some time."

The next afternoon they sat in the corner of the tavern, each with a cup of ale (the barmaid behind the counter refused to give them anything stronger). It was a quiet time of day, with no spontaneous brawls or failed attempts at seduction. It wasn't empty either. A performer idly strummed his lute, and groups of people sat here and there, laughing over games or simply chatting.

Killian pulled a deck of cards and two dice out of his pocket. A sailor had given them to him once in exchange for three charmed beads. He held up the cards and dice in each hand. "Could I interest you in a game, Swan?"

She eyed the dice, then the cards, and then the dice again. "Those are loaded aren't they?"

Killian grinned. "Would you believe me if I said at least the cards aren't marked?"

It turned out he spoke the truth. And that Emma had more experience of being in taverns than he initially thought when she beat him at every game.

Visiting the tavern became another of Killian's formerly solitary pastimes that he and Emma enjoyed together quite often.

The witch would smile widely every time Killian mentioned Emma. Whenever he came home late, she would eagerly poke for any information about their day together, where they'd been, what they'd been up to. _"My boy, growing into a young man, already courting his first lady."_ He knew she was joking (at least partly joking). Yet he always shook his head at her, denying any idea of him _courting_ Emma. They were just friends.

After three weeks of trips to the village to visit Emma, Althea suggested once more that Killian invite her to their cottage for supper. Or lunch. Perhaps just a snack. "Maybe you two can tend to the herbs tomorrow; my back has started to ache so dreadfully again, I don't think I have the strength to do it this week."

She was not a subtle woman, his mother.

Lately, Althea had been mentioning pains more and more often though. Killian couldn't help but fear that she hid more of her well-being from him than she showed. She was hardly young after all.

In the end, Killian decided to offer the invitation to Emma anyway.

"...but you don't have to. I understand if you'd rather not climb the hill again. Or spend your day in a witch's herb garden."

"No, it sounds like fun. Maybe you can teach me some witch-y things."

Sometimes Emma surprised him with how open she had become. She was the same person; same tangled hair and unclean face, same tattered clothes and defiant eyes. But her walls had come down. Little by little, she had let him in, and he cherished every moment.

"Fair warning, my mother might be a bit overbearing." Althea had already started planning what to cook for lunch when he agreed to ask Emma.

"I've met her once before, she wasn't that bad."

"Let's hope you keep thinking that."

In truth, Althea wasn't that bad. She was interested in every aspect of Emma's life, and had no shame in asking questions, but she never asked anything too personal. More like what her favourite colour was, or season of the year. Or how old she was (sixteen, like Killian) and when she'd turn seventeen. They were small details, some of which Killian had never thought to ask. He carefully stowed away Emma's answers in the back of his head.

Out in the herb garden, Emma took her turn to pick Killian's brain, mostly about the different plants and their properties. He answered the best he could.

"Do you have a favourite flower?" Emma asked, mimicking Althea and her many questions.

"I've never really given it that much thought. Perhaps jasmine. Or poppies. Middlemists are quite delightful too."

"I've always liked forget-me-nots," Emma said.

Killian raised a brow at that.

"I like their colour. Once when I was little, I found this entire field of forget-me-nots; I remember thinking it looked like the sea - it was so beautiful. And well, I've never forgotten them since." She smiled at her joke, fully aware of how corny it was.

Killian filed away another detail about her. He'd make sure to plant seeds of forget-me-nots on the hill, so they could bloom when spring came. They had few magical properties and almost none when it came to healing, but he found himself wanting to cover the entire hill with the small blue flowers.

* * *

A week later, Killian sat alone in his corner of the den, staring out the window.

It had been a month since he and Emma had seen each other for the second time and spent that afternoon on the cliff by the ocean. Killian had never expected to find such a good friend. Here in his little nook he was surrounded by books, full of stories about friendships that lasted through battles and curses. Stories that had always made him long for someone to share his own adventures - or just a simple laugh - with.

Now he had Emma.

They had made plans to meet outside the tavern once Killian finished his errands. Throughout the morning Killian had been carving beads. He thought of carving one for Emma, as a one-month-of-friendship-anniversary gift. That thought had led him to stare out the window for several minutes, contemplating the idea.

He could make a bracelet - that wouldn't be too much, would it? But what would he carve anyway? When he thought about it, he couldn't find any figure that symbolized friendship alone. There were plenty symbols of special bonds and being interlinked, but they all resembled love too much. He didn't want to come across as presumptuous.

Killian shifted his stare to the uncarved bead on the table.

An idea started to form.

Three hours later, Killian was greeted by a cheerful Emma outside of the tavern. His errands done and over with, they had the rest of the day to do as they pleased. They didn't go into the tavern; instead they decided to just walk around for a bit.

Every now and then, they crossed people who made a great effort to look down on them. Whisper gossip to whomever they walked with. 'The witch's son and the street urchin'.

Neither Killian nor Emma cared much anymore though. They knew that they were both worth much more than anyone who thought they were better for being normal.

The bracelet burned in Killian's pocket, even without being laced with magic. As he had told Emma a while back, the charms didn't really work anyway. Truth be told, he didn't fancy explaining to his mother why he was making a gift for Emma - she would only start talking about 'the art of courting' again.

Still, it was as if the bracelet sensed its owner was near. It was chiding him for not giving it to her yet.

"Uh, Swan?" Killian scratched the spot behind his ear.

"Yeah?" They slowed their pace.

Killian fumbled with the bracelet, taking it out of his pocket. "I made this charm for you, as some sort of token of our friendship, I guess. It's nothing special - actually it's rather lame, I know, I just felt like carving it and here it is. It's not laced with any magic though - I hope you don't mind, I mean, it's just a mere bracelet and not exactly a charm..."

Emma took the bracelet from his hand and rubbed her thumb over the swan that he had carved. Killian rambled on.

Their pace had stopped in an empty alleyway. When Emma stayed silent, Killian shut his mouth. He searched her face for a trace of her thoughts.

Maybe a carved swan had been a bit too cheesy. Maybe it was too much. But at the same time, Killian felt tired of treating her like a scared animal. She was more than that. She could handle way more than that.

Emma's eyes were glistening. She was biting her lip.

Bloody hell, he had made a huge mistake, hadn't he? Apologies spilled from his mouth. He hadn't meant to hurt her or offend her or anything of the sorts.

In a split second, Emma had grabbed the back of his head and pulled his lips down to hers. Killian's apologies died as his lips instantly moved against hers. All rational thoughts fled his mind.

It was unlike anything he had ever experienced. A lot weirder than fairy dust. A lot nicer too.

She was kissing him - they were kissing - _Emma Swan was kissing him!_

He was stunned. Completely stunned. Emma pulled away, but his head followed hers, just for a slight moment, just to stay near her.

"Don't be sorry. I... No one's ever given me something so nice, Killian - no one's ever been so nice to me. I..." She looked as if she had been doused with cold water. Or woken up from a dream. There was something alight in her eyes, something akin to fear.

Emma stepped back from him, clutching the charm to her chest with both of her hands.

Killian was still stunned - _wrecked_ \- but he could see her pulling away from him in more ways than one. He wanted to stop her, wanted to ask her what was happening in her head, wanted to comfort her, wanted to kiss her again, but she was gone. Run away before he could even call out her name.


	3. Forget Me Not - part 1

Splinters of wood covered the desk and dust scattered in the sunlight. Killian sat in his nook, carving vines and flowers in the lid of a wooden box. He had been working on it since breakfast, too immersed in the art to even think about lunch when noon came around.

It had been two months. Two months since Emma had kissed him and bolted. Since then, his trips to the village had become a lot fewer.

He kept thinking of her. Going over the way she had run from him, over and over again. If he could only be sure that she had been happy, that she hadn't left because he wasn't enough. Or too much.

The knife skid across the lid. It left a crack in the wood, slashing the pattern he had been working on. _Brilliant_.

Killian tossed the knife from him. It slid across the table and fell to the floor with a clang. He ran his hand over his eyes and through his hair. This was the fourth time he had lost his concentration and ruined a piece the past week alone.

Pushing back from the table, Killian got up from the wooden chair, snatched his cloak and left the cottage without a word to Althea. He trudged down the hill, down to the ocean. Not to the cliff, no, all the way to the beach, all the way out until the cold water lapped around his knees.

This was how his days passed now; the exact same way they used to. Killian could describe it in no other way than hollow.

All because of a single blonde girl.

A friend.

* * *

Three years passed.

Killian came home from the woods on the east side of the hill, a single rabbit dangling from his shoulder. Althea usually dealt with the hunting, but she had grown too tired in her age.

Bows and arrows had never been Killian's forte; he had always preferred swords, but they weren't too useful for hunting. Instead he set up snares, and had done so for the past year.

Killian entered the quiet house and went to the preserving pantry. Althea had bestowed the small room with a cooling charm. It was warmer than usual, but he thought naught of it as he tied up the rabbit, next to the pheasant from the day before.

Althea usually dealt with the carcasses once Killian had fetched them from the woods. He preferred carving wood, not animals. And though Althea had grown very tired lately, she could still handle her jobs inside the cottage. Sometimes out in the gardens as well.

Killian went back into the den to sit at his table in the corner, wondering at Althea's absence. Had she gone upstairs to rest for a bit?

His latest project was a wooden toy ship, resembling a brig from the navy. As a reference, he used a drawing from a book he had bought in the village when he was twelve.

Someday, he would sail on a real ship. He'd get to experience the spray of the sea for himself, the wind blowing in the sails. He'd know what it felt like to go to bed, exhausted after a hard day's work. Wake up with the sun. Man the rigging, set the course or swab the deck, he'd do anything. Someday.

As Killian whittled away on the toy ship, the silence began to irk him. It grew more eerie than peaceful.

Something felt wrong.

"Mum?"

Killian set his tools and the ship on the table.

No reply came.

He rose from his place to look through the windows of the kitchen. She wasn't in the gardens either. He would've seen her when he came home after all.

"Mum, are you home?"

She couldn't possibly have left the hill.

Killian climbed the stairs to the top floor of Althea's room, calling out once more.

Her door was closed. She had to be asleep or not in there at all, or she would've heard him calling. Would've said something. The door was never locked, so Killian didn't hesitate to open it.

Just to peek in.

And there she was. Lying in bed, sleeping, the witch's face looked much younger than when she was awake. Her hands joined over the covers, her body as still as Killian had ever seen.

When had his heart started pounding like that?

"Mum?" Killian brushed one of her hands, grasping it in his own as he knelt by her bed. It felt uncanny. Cold. His throat clogged, and his voice came out like a croak.

Shaking, he reached up to touch her neck. He couldn't believe what he was doing. It couldn't be his own arm doing this, his own fingers reaching to find a pulse.

 _This can't be happening._

Killian cradled his mother's body, crying into the blankets above her silent chest.

 _This can't be happening_.

His fingers were numb and his arms limp. Killian dropped the shovel and sank to the cold ground.

It was an ugly grave. No flowers, no gifts, no magic. Only dirt.

He should make a headstone for her. Something beautiful. Honorable. But for once in his life, the last thing Killian wanted to do was carve. He just wanted to sit there. To never go back into the empty cottage or down to the village full of careless people. They wouldn't mourn her death if they knew, or even celebrate her life. They would only worry about their own. Where should they get their coughing syrups from now? What if they became ill, who would heal them? Who would help their pathetic plants grow?

For minutes or hours, Killian sat on the ground, turning cold. He stared at the grave, refusing to acknowledge the village in the distance or the ocean far beyond.

She deserved more than this.

A long time ago, when Killian was a mere boy, he had asked Althea why they lived on a hill. Why not in the village or by the sea?

 _"Up here, I can see everything"_ , she had answered. " _And everything can see me. In a sense, we all belong to the world, so why hide where it can't reach you, when you can build your home in plain sight of it all?"_

As a boy, Killian couldn't understand what she meant. They lived alone on a hill, wasn't that the same as hiding? Didn't she ever get lonely?

 _"Why should I? I have you by my side, and as long as I live, that's all I'll ever need."_

He tried to believe her.

Killian found himself standing when the sun finally disappeared. His sight was still blurry as he fixed it on the horizon.

Nineteen years old, and he had never seen the world beyond this view. It had always been his big dream. To sail the seas, discover the realms beyond. But it had never been more than a dream, not as long as he had a home here. A home that Althea claimed was right in the middle of it all.

Now the horizon frightened him. It frightened him, the way he felt the sea calling, his body longing for the open water in return. A new reality faced him, he knew. His home here was gone, gone with Althea in the ground, and it wasn't coming back.

She didn't need him anymore.

* * *

In the days that followed, Killian did his best to carve a headstone out of wood. He had never worked with chisels and stone before and he didn't fancy trying. Wood - that he knew what to do with. He carved his grief in the cursive letters of her name, a frame of twisted vines, birds and hares, flowers and leaves.

He could find no words to carve that did her life justice, nor the pain of her death. Trouble with words was a rare thing for Killian, but everything he thought of seemed too little.

In the end, he went with the words that would have been his final goodbye, had he had a chance to say them to her before she died.

 _You were my home, mother. Thank you._

When morning came, Killian set the headstone in the witch's grave and said goodbye one last time. Red sunlight graced her resting place, a sight Killian would never forget.

When he turned his back on Althea's grave, it was to make his way down the hill. He carried no basket full of merchandise, but a satchel packed with necessities and a small pouch of coin. His black cloak, full of pockets and warmth was his armor, now more than ever.

It felt strange to walk down the hill. The tree roots that built a natural staircase, the bushes that threatened to overgrow the path, they all looked the same. But it felt like the world knew he might never walk there again.

Killian didn't stop when he reached the village, but went straight to the docks. The village on the cliff was hardly a port town, and few ships were ever docked at the wharf. If luck would have it, there could be a small merchant ship, or perhaps a hunting ship in need of an extra hand.

Killian picked up his pace when he saw the small trading ship, come with wares for a few of the local shops. It seemed to be leaving soon, the crew packing away crates and barrels. Killian hoped his luck stretched for passage aboard the ship.

"Is the captain present or perhaps someone else in charge?" Killian asked one of the crewmen, a big fellow but not seemingly aggressive.

"What for? You looking for work?"

Killian turned his head to look up at the man speaking on the ship's deck. He surveyed him for a moment - he wore a finer uniform than the crewmen and a hat befit a captain.

"Aye. I'd be willing to do any work that'll get me out of here."

The captain laughed and the crew followed soon after.

" _Any work_ , you say? You don't want to seem too eager, boy, someone could easily take advantage of that. But I'm afraid I've got no work for ya - we've no need for another weak deckhand."

Killian clenched his jaw. He was lean, sure, but he wasn't _weak_. And, no, he didn't have any experience of seafaring, but he had read loads and he _knew_ that he was meant to be on a ship. The water was in his blood. His mother had told him that, when she humorously apologized for keeping him from his home. His chest tightened at the memory, but it also gave him strength to straighten his spine.

He wouldn't let this man laugh at him for long.

"If you won't have me work, perhaps you'll be more likely to take me on in exchange for coin."

"You are an eager fellow, aren't ya? Well, boy, how much will you be willing to pay? Anything?" the captain laughed.

"Depends on your next destination."

The captain studied Killian's stance for a moment. "Belltown."

Killian fished a small pouch of coin out of one of his pockets. There wasn't much in it.

"I have five silvers and thirty-six coppers. How much do you want?"

"Well, that's not much. I'd hate to rob you of all your money, boy. Say I take four of the silvers and twenty of your coppers and let you sail with us to Belltown, does that sound good?"

"Perfect sir. Thank you."

The crew let Killian pass through, up the plank to the captain. He fished out the needed sum and handed it to the captain, who looked irritatingly smug. Killian didn't fail to notice the man's momentary disappointment when he saw that Killian was actually the taller of the two.

"You've got a lot to learn, boy. Just stay out of me crew's way, will ya? Oh, and 'welcome aboard _The Sturgeon'_. We sail in one hour."

Killian cracked a smile as the captain walked past him. He stepped over to the railing, looking back at the village one last time - he couldn't see the cottage on the hill from here, only trees. The hole in Killian's chest remained hollow. Anticipation fluttered in his stomach though. Anxiety too, he couldn't deny that.

He turned around, walking the six meters to the other railing. There he feasted his eyes on the open sea in front of him, spurring on the butterflies in his stomach. He almost smiled again, thinking of the several different small pouches, each in their different pockets in his cloak and satchel. Each full of coin. The captain was right, Killian had a lot to learn, but he wasn't completely without wit. As long as he thought he had taken most of his money, the captain would be satisfied. Killian knew his type from the tavern all too well.

When the captain finally ordered to cast off the lines and the ship set sail, Killian strived to take it all in. The crews' tasks, the ways of the rigging, how the wind blew in the sails. It was mesmerizing.

The waves went easy on the ship, giving Killian a chance to adapt to the swaying. He hadn't even thought to fear the possibility of his stomach disagreeing with the swells of the sea. Or his legs turning to jelly.

Killian didn't dare look back at the village. He wouldn't turn around to see if the cottage had become visible up on the hill. He feared it would feed the guilt inside him. Instead he took a deep breath of fresh air. At the first spray of the sea on his face, Killian had to bite back a wide grin.

She wanted this for him. She wanted him to join the sea. He wasn't leaving her behind on the hill, as much as honoring her memory. Bringing her light with him out into the open world.

That was the thought that let him dry the sweat off his brow during the next couple of days. Even when he was busy studying the sailors' crafts, the captain's orders and the way the ship glided through the water, Althea was always at the back of his mind.

A week of easy sailing brought them towards Belltown. The weather was still with them, even in the turning of summer to autumn. When land finally came to view on the horizon again, Killian noted that the leaves had yet to turn their colour. It was chilly though.

Althea had always loved autumn for its red and yellow leaves. She had loved the spirit the season brought, the search for warmth and light as the days grew colder and darker.

 _The Sturgeon_ docked at Belltown before the sky blackened. It was a place entirely different to the village where Killian had grown up. Taverns lined the port, people bustled about, men and women alike worked hard at the docks. And there was a _lot_ more than a single small cargo ship.

Could he really be so fortunate?

Killian was off the ship as fast as possible. In hindsight, it was probably a mistake, seeing as most of the crew got to see him wobble as he took his first steps on land. A week of sailing certainly affected a person's legs. Killian knew that, he had read about it, but it was something different to experience it for himself.

He hurried away from the piers as soon as he regained his proper balance. He was eager to find the nearest and cheapest tavern.

There had been little hassle aboard _The Sturgeon_ , but the meals had been few and small, the bedding tough and the captain awful. In the end, Killian didn't only pay for passage, meals and a corner to sleep in, but to help swab the deck as well. And be the crew's laughing stock.

Now, Killian was far from naive - he knew he was saying yes to a hard life. He knew that sailing was worlds away from carving wooden beads in the corner of the den, but he was determined to work hard. This was his destiny.

That didn't mean he couldn't look forward to a warm meal in a tavern and a soft bed too.

Tomorrow he would check out the ships and see if any captain would take him on. If not, perhaps the harbormaster could use a hand. Any insight on sailing that he could get, he would take.

The next two days, Killian spent talking to crews and first mates, even a few captains (when he got the chance). The answer was always the same though - he seemed alright, but they didn't need another deckhand or an extra mouth to feed and pouch to pay. Certainly not a deckhand without proper experience.

He was glad that a bit of stubble was starting to show on his jaw at least. If he got mistaken for a boy one more time... If only he had broader shoulders as well. But Killian didn't have all the time in the world - or rather, all the _money_ in the world. Sure, he had had a handsome sum with him from the beginning, but he could hardly spend it all for a room in a tavern.

On the third day, a slaughter ship docked at Belltown. Killian had once read that working on such a ship was one of the lowliest and toughest jobs at sea.

But it was also an easy hire.

"I could use an extra hand on the rigging. Lost a few too many in the storm last month. But it's no easy job, and I won't have no complaining or whining. It's hard work or no work at all." The captain of _The Calabash_ said nothing that Killian hadn't expected. Slaughter ships didn't do easy sailing - they zigzagged through the waves, hunting for seals or whales or other prey. It was hell on sea.

"I'll work hard, sir, I have no illusions of easy work."

"That's what they all say... You seem good enough though. We sail for three months a time, so expect to be back for winter solstice if all goes well."

And like that, Killian was hired.

It was another three days before they set sail.

 _The Calabash_ was a foul-smelling ship, the stench of dead meat lingering in the wood. There were no crew quarters. Each man had to find his own corner where he could hope to stay at least a bit dry. Killian had no desire to fight for one of the better spots. Instead he claimed a small corner where the curve of the hull reached the deck above. It was a good spot, all things considered. Tight, but undisturbed.

As a deckhand of low station, Killian could expect only the last scraping of the pot for each meal. None but the two ships' boys were second to him. Constantly, orders were bellowed at him and he scampered to comply. It earned him a couple of blisters, countless of bruises and some scratches here and there. He kept going.

 _The Calabash_ hunted seals, and once the slaughter started, every man had new burdens topped on him. Killian helped stow the meat. It reeked; a smell that he could never see himself getting used to.

More than once, during a storm or high waves, Killian thought he'd surely die. But he kept going. He needed to prove himself, to whom exactly, he wasn't sure. This was his life now, out on the sea, and he accepted it with open arms.

He even found himself liking it every now and then. The hard labor. He was _good_ at it. He soaked up the experience, knowing that it could bring him work on a cleaner merchant ship someday. Or perhaps he could even join the navy.

He shook his head at the thought. As if the son of a witch could every get accepted into the navy.

* * *

 **sooo, I guess I decided to give Killian a bit of a hard time... sorry... killing off Althea was pretty hard, but it was always meant to happen - the start of Killian's great (and rough) adventure in the wide open world! Anyways, as always, thank for reading :)**


	4. Forget Me Not - part 2

Autumn had turned to winter when The Calabash docked at Belltown again. Killian's cloak had been torn and ruined during the three months at sea. It had been his mattress, his blanket, his only comfort at times, but now it was nothing but tattered cloth. The winter breeze set in his bones.

Killian went to the captain's cabin at the second mate's orders. It was to get his payment; a bit of coin and a ship's tag as proof of his labor. Killian already knew what to use his coin for: a long coat, heavy as his cloak had been.

"You've done good work, Jones. I don't suppose you'd like to stay on, sail with The Calabash again in five weeks' time?"

It prided Killian, the offer to stay on, but in truth, he wanted nothing more than to never sail on a slaughter ship again.

"I'm honored, sir, but I think my path leads elsewhere. It's been a pleasure to work on The Calabash - a fine ship she is, there's no question about that. I thank you for taking me on, sir, and for the offer of staying, but I'm unsure whether or not I'll actually be in Belltown in five weeks."

Killian's way of wheedling himself out of the offer seemed to please the captain well enough. At least he didn't offend him.

With a ship's tag in his pocket, Killian was sure he could find a good job. The three months of sailing had strengthened him beyond belief. His cheeks had hollowed properly and scruff covered his jaw. Even his shoulders were broader. He wasn't a boy anymore, that was for sure, and it had only been three months.

Throughout the following years at sea, the look in his eyes changed the most. His stance. He wasn't the witch's son anymore. He was a man who had seen the world and worked hard. The type of man he had used to study in the tavern as a boy.

It suited him though.

After sailing with a lesser cargo ship for a year, Killian secured work on a proper merchant vessel. The Alexandrite. He worked his way through the rankings from a lowly deckhand to an actual mate. He surged with pride the day Captain Smith appointed him to be the carpenter's apprentice. No one got the status of apprentice unless the captain intended to keep them on for a long time. Killian longed to share his joy with someone; his mother would have been proud of him, he knew.

Emma... he had once told her of his dreams of sailing the sea. Would she be happy for him?

Why was he even still thinking of her?

It seemed fitting that Killian should work with the ship's carpenter. It reminded him of hours spent carving in the corner of the den. Working as a carpenter on a ship was a lot different than carving beads and trinkets though. It was better.

The carpenter's duties involved surgery as well. Mainly amputations though. No bloodless healing as Killian had once known it.

On his twenty-fourth birthday - almost five years since he had left the cottage - Killian enjoyed a drink and a game of dice in a port tavern. Getting to sleep in a real bed instead of a hammock was the best birthday gift he had ever gotten.

His mates filled him with rum and Killian downed each mug with a grin. Everything became nice and fuzzy. Laughter filled the tavern, music and chatter surrounded him. The exhilaration went straight to his head. Plenty of lovely bar maids and beautiful women sauntered about the tavern that night.

Killian was right where he wanted to be.

Until the world stopped turning.

Candlelight bounced off golden hair at the bar, leaving Killian stunned. In a second he was back in the town market, seeing blonde hair flow behind a girl as she ran away from a man crying thief.

Swan.

The woman at the bar turned her head. For a moment, Killian could have sworn it was her.

He was drunk off his ass - he had to be. Overrun with delirium. She couldn't possibly be there. Just a few paces away from him. No, he was deluding himself.

One moment more, and she was gone, left through the door of the tavern.

But Killian wouldn't let her go this time.

He jumped to his feet, bumping into the table and startling his mates. Killian swayed where he stood. When had his head started weighing so much?

"You alright, Jones?"

"You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"Hey, what the hell's going -"

Killian stumbled away from the table, giving no thought to his mates. His mind had cleared and he strode towards the door to follow her. He'd stop her this time, he had to. He'd get her to stay.

Nothing but a cold breeze greeted him.

Perhaps he had seen a ghost. The street was empty, no sign of a blonde lass anywhere.

Emma.

He was bloody insane. This was hardy the first time he thought he had seen her. Wouldn't be the last either, he imagined.

Killian shook his head at himself and his wandering thoughts. He thought of his mother less and less, though she was always somehow there with him, but Emma... she haunted him in a way that made no sense. It had been eight bloody years, but not a day went by that he didn't think of her.

She really must have bewitched me at some point.

* * *

He was twenty-five when it happened.

A storm had been brewing the whole day. Wyatt - the ship's carpenter - sent Killian down to the upper floor of the hold. He was to check for any damages in the hull that might cause leakage when the storm toughened up. If anything looked too bad, he had to stuff the crack with oakum or plugs, note the place and tell Wyatt.

The waves were already taller than half an hour ago, tossing the ship from side to side. Killian almost lost his balance at one particular swell, despite having grown very used to the rocking of a ship.

Rain pattered on the deck above him. What had been a tiny drizzle when he went below deck must have turned into a proper downpour by now. Killian was glad to be below deck, dry for once.

He walked next to the stacked crates, the starboard side of the hull to his right. The cargo they had undertaken for this shipment varied from fabrics to iron ore. On the floor below, they kept the barrels of food and water.

Killian stooped to study a fissure between two planks of the hull. He ran his hand over the crack, testing for any draft. It seemed tight enough. No worse than between any other two planks.

The ship hauled towards starboard and Killian steadied himself against the hull. When that particular wave passed, he got up to continue his assessment of the planks.

A sudden dive of the ship jostled Killian into the crates on his left, the force causing him to drop the toolbox in his hand. It clattered on the planks, the woolly oakum spilling out on the floor. Fortunately, the crates he had stumbled into were well-secured. Nothing was knocked over.

At least not by him.

Three paces ahead of him, a crate stacked on two others wobbled as the ship took a serious plunge to the right. Killian almost toppled over himself.

The crate was skidding off its place, unsecured. Killian reached out to stop it from falling and crashing to the floor. He underestimated the weight of the crate though. Overestimated his own strength.

In one second he felt drunk and dizzy on his feet, reaching out for a bad decision. The next, the crate had slammed against the planks, crushing his hand beneath it.

Killian yelled out.

Pain consumed his hand, searing through his arm, hot and angry into his spine. There was blood in his mouth, from biting his lip or tongue, from scraping his face against the splintered planks when he fell, he had no idea.

His hand. His hand.

He grimaced, letting the weight numb his crushed fingers. Not a single muscle in his body wasn't strained, and he could hear it in his voice as he called for help. His eyes turned upwards, fighting to stay conscious.

"Jones?"

"Shit."

"Who the bloody hell secured the crates - how the fuck could they do such a piss-poor job?"

"Come, we need to get the crate off his hand."

"Shit."

"Come on, mate, lift!"

Killian saw nothing but the boots of his shipmates. He could barely discern their voices.

Then the pressure left his hand. It was a relief. And a whole new rush of agony.

The ship crashed against another wave, almost rolling him into the hull. The blood in his veins pumped quicker than ever, he could hear it.

His mates help him to his knees but he wasn't much better than dead weight. Every movement grew heavier, his head dropping to his shoulder.

He thought of crates knocked over. Angry brutes towering over him, women spitting in his face.

Running. Practically soaring as she led him through to safety. He was soaring. He was sure of it.

Somehow he got up the first flight of stairs. Somehow he made it through the swaying hall to the carpenter's cabin.

His head throbbed.

No words could describe the pain in his hand.

On the hard bed, his vision became clearer once more. A light was swinging from the ceiling, the ship rocking tougher than before. Perhaps the waves were playing a game with the weak toy of wood and nails. Perhaps the sea had finally come to claim him.

The light kept swinging.

"Boy, that looks bad," Wyatt popped up right in front of him. The ship's carpenter. The ship's surgeon when need be. "At least you ain't dead. Yet."

"My hand," Killian grit through his teeth. He looked at the offending limb, feeling helpless.

"I ain't gonna lie to ye, it's not good. It's terrible to be frank. Mangled as I've ever seen a hand be. Ye better thank the gods it's your left and not your right."

Killian tried to move his fingers, searching desperately for the muscles to pull. He might as well have had no hand at all. Everything felt disconnected, clouded in numbing pain and all he could do was stare at the crushed limb.

"I think you know what's best, Jones. That hand's as crushed and dead as a beetle under a boot. I ain't gonna do it without your consent, but it's nothing but dead meat waiting to rot, you know that. It's got to be cut off, quick and clean before your arm starts going black."

The edges of Killian's sight were already going black. Bile rose in his throat and he cursed himself for being so faint. So weak. So bloody stupid that he thought he could stop a crashing crate with only one hand.

Now he would have to do everything with only one hand.

Wyatt had told plenty of tales of the horrendous accidents he had seen in his many years. Several limbs that got severed off when there was no other way. Killian had always sympathized with the wounded. He understood why people wouldn't accept having a part of their body cut off. But if it meant they could survive, why didn't they just get it over with? Cut it off and be glad to see another day. Of course, he never thought he would be making the decision himsel.

Killian swallowed.

He looked the carpenter in the eyes and nodded.

* * *

"I'm sorry for your loss, Jones, I truly am. The deckhands have had hell to pay for poorly secured cargo, I can assure you that."

The captain sat at his desk. Killian stood before him, his arm in a sling with a well-bandaged stump where his hand had once been. He knew what the captain was about to say. The pity in his eyes said it all. The resoluteness behind it as well.

"You'll be given extra pay for compensation, of course, and an honourable ship's tag. You've done your job well, there's no reason not to honour you for that. But Jones," Captain Smith held his palms out as if in defeat, "you can't work on a ship with just one hand. I regret having to let you go, I do, especially when you've lost something as vital as your hand, but I must do what's best for the ship. You understand, right?"

In some ways he did. He had always thought Captain Smith to be a decent man, but at that moment, resentment boiled underneath Killian's skin. Short a hand, and now he was disposable. No mind to how hard he had worked, no mind to giving him a chance. Plenty sailors had less than ten fingers, but Killian, he didn't deserve any chances.

"Sir, I might not be capable of heavy lifting or handling the rigging, but those aren't my main tasks anyway. I'm sure I could learn to maneuver the ship and my tools with one hand if given some practice."

"I'm sure you could, Jones, but now's not the time for that practice. I need men prepared for anything and you need rest - some time on land, away from waves and heavy work would do you good. Learn to work on steady ground first, and then maybe you could be considered for ships-work again."

Killian clenched his jaw, trying hard not to say anything he would regret.

"We dock at Bear Port in two days. You'll get all your payment then, and until then you can spend your time resting. Your work on The Alexandrite is done, Jones. Thank you for serving us."

And like that, Killian was dismissed.

He longed to shout at the captain, yell out his frustration and anger. But he wouldn't risk losing any of his coin. He didn't doubt that he would need as much money as he could get, for he wasn't likely to get any job soon.

It was a bitter moment when he stepped off The Alexandrite two days later. He walked away without looking back at those faces full of pity but no real care. Killian had had enough of people looking at him as if he were something lesser. First the witch's son, then a lowly sailor, now a cripple.

His life was certainly full of good fortune and joy.

In a drunken stupor, Killian made his way to the only place he could think of going.

Home.

What he didn't spend on the passage, he threw at bottles of rum. The one hand he had was almost as useless as the one he didn't, always glued to a bottle or a pocket flask. It was a poor comfort, but he had nothing else.

Bloody hell. It was all he could think when the small cargo ship docked at the pier he had left six years ago. He took another swig of rum to numb the throbbing in his missing hand.

Walking through the village was like walking into a nightmare. People covered their noses as he passed. They whispered in the ears of their friends, glared at him with disgust. He wondered if anyone recognized him. The young clean boy who sold potions and trinkets and studied the people in the tavern. Did they recognize him now, with hair falling into his eyes, a scruffy beard covering his lower face, and of course, the stupid, covered stump of an arm that just hung there. Useless.

Killian's steps swayed from side to side. Somehow he managed to get up the hill without stumbling over rocks or roots and rolling all the way down again. The path was barely there at all, overgrown throughout the years. But to Killian's drunken sight, it all looked the same and it twisted his stomach into one giant knot.

He wouldn't go to the grave. He couldn't. It nearly brought him to his knees, thinking of Althea not being there when he opened the door. Instead she'd be lying in the ground, nothing but rot and bones.

He might as well have been crawling when he reached the door. He hadn't locked it when he left - who would ever try and rob a dead witch?

He stumbled through, noticing the dust on the floor first. When he lifted his sight to the den of the cottage, he had to steady himself against the wall.

It was unbearable. Everything looked exactly the same, like walking back in time, except it was all covered in a thick layer of dust. Spider webs decorated the ceiling. The windows were almost impossible to see through and it absolutely reeked. Even through his own stench, the smell brought a grimace to his face.

His insides may as well have fallen out of him. Here he was, nothing but pain and alcohol, a mangled mess. A complete failure.

Sudden power surged inside Killian. He roared out in the empty cottage, cried out his pain. He smashed the now empty flask to the floor, relishing the feeling. Maddened, he grabbed the broom leaning against the wall and threw it across the room. He had half a mind to smash all the glass phials, rip the boxes of ingredients from their shelves and tear down the cabinets. To rip the pillows apart. Punch the wall; destroy as much of the house as he could, taking himself down along with it. He just wanted to be angry, to let his insides show for once.

The energy left his body as abruptly as it had come. He was about to grab the table and flip it over when all the strength left his arms. He couldn't do it. He refused to be that broken.

His eyes were blurry and Killian wondered for how long he had been crying as he licked the salt from his lips.

That's when he saw it.

Killian sank to the nearest chair. He reached for the dusty object on the table. A bracelet.

He rubbed his thumb over the bead, dusting it off. At once, peace finally settled, while an entirely different storm flared up inside him. She had always had that effect on him.

It was a poorly carved bead, but Killian knew at once what is what meant to be - a forget-me-not.

* * *

 **... is it just me or has this chapter been a whole lot of Killian-centric angst?... oh well, hope you liked it :) something tells me Emma might show up again next chapter...**


	5. The Broken and Healed

Killian woke to an ache in his head that matched the throbbing of his phantom pains. The room swayed. It mattered not though; the rooms were always swaying with the gentle rocking of the waves.

But he wasn't lying in any hammock. And the swaying had nothing to do with the sea.

When his mind finally caught up, Killian recognized the room around him, the couch beneath him. His hand was still wrapped around the bracelet, clutching it to his chest. He was _home_. Or at least, the only place in the world he could call home now.

Killian groaned and covered his eyes with his shortened arm. Why was it so bloody bright?

The past years of waking up with the sun had no effect on Killian as he lay on the couch, wishing more than anything that he could just go back to sleep. Sure, it was an uneasy slumber, but the worst part was waking. Waking up to find the real nightmare at the end of his left arm.

As it was, the room wouldn't stop swaying and Killian wasn't going back to sleep any time soon. His stomach growled at him. It was with good reason though - Killian couldn't remember eating much the past couple of days. Little more than rum had passed his lips.

He needed to eat something. He needed a _bath_. The grime on his skin felt a hundred pounds heavy - if only he could get rid of the stench he might feel better. Yes, a bath would do him good.

Getting up from the couch was a battle in itself. It felt like the beginning of a whole new lifetime; as when he left the cottage six years ago, landing his feet on the floor felt like a point of no return.

Killian tucked the bracelet into his coat pocket. He even managed to tuck Emma to the back of his mind, the mystery of the bead as well.

Breakfast was an interesting affair. Killian had cleared out the pantries of anything that rotted easily before he had left. Still, amongst the few foods left, most of it had gone bad too. He managed to find some beans that had been stored tight, and fortunately the old water post on the hill still worked.

After his meal, boiling enough water for a bath took a long while, but it was worth every second when he finally soaked in the tub and let the past weeks wash off him. Finally relaxing, he thought of the times Althea warmed baths for him with a mere wave of her hand. After his bath he would go to her grave. He owed it to her. Owed it to himself.

* * *

Killian developed a new rhythm within the following weeks. It was tough in an entirely different way, this quiet and simple life. Once, he ventured down to the village out of a food-wise (and rum-wise) necessity, otherwise he didn't leave the hill at all. He could already imagine himself growing into a magicless, male version of Althea. Alone, a crippled outcast on the hill.

Clouds gathered on the horizon as Killian sat near his mother's grave. A bottle of rum rested against his thigh. He rolled the bead - the forget-me-not - between his fingers, staring out at the ocean in the distance.

Like always, Killian could come to no conclusion on Emma. Her sudden departure still irked him, the ache of losing a friend and possibly more still tugged at his heart whenever he thought of it. A reason was all he had ever wanted. Just a clue to why she had left. Now he sat with some sort of clue in his hand, but he had no idea what to make of it. Was it an apology or was it a promise?

Killian gulped a mouthful of rum.

Whatever had happened to Emma, he truly wished she was happy. He hoped the bracelet was a sign that she was alright. No matter her reasons for leaving it at the cottage, she must have done it because she cared about him on some level. She wasn't indifferent to him. She didn't hate him as he had once feared she did.

That was all Killian needed. That was his final conclusion as he drank another mouthful of rum before getting up.

Realizing he would never carve anything again had been one of the largest blows to Killian. But he could still delve back into one of his old pastimes. He could go to the cliff overlooking the sea. He hadn't gone there yet, had dreaded it in fact. But now seemed the perfect time to do it.

Killian tucked the bracelet back into the pocket of his black coat and left for the cliff with nothing but a full flask of rum. He would probably need it.

Looking upon the waves so close certainly brought with it a strong urge to drink. The wind blew in his too-long hair, blew whispers of old dreams and failures. Here he had thought of a life spent on the sea, imagined grand adventures and discoveries. Now he was back, only six years later, and his dreams had defeated him. Maybe his home had been this beach - this cliff - all along. Killian closed his eyes and let the winds whisper their worst.

The clouds grew heavier, threatening with rain. They finally broke out in a drizzle as Killian trudged his way back up the hill. His flask was half empty, grasped in his hand as he trod the muddy steps. It almost looked like other shoes had graced the path before him.

Killian climbed the last step. On the top of the hill at last, he looked forward to lighting a fire in the cottage. But he never made it towards the door. A flash of movement caught his eyes, to the right of the cottage, over there by Althea's grave.

Killian stopped dead in his tracks.

By the witch's grave, she stood with her back turned to him. _That blonde hair._ It couldn't be -

"Swan?"

She spun around, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Killian?"

He was dumbstruck. Her eyes mirrored his surprise, the wonder of finally seeing each other again.

She had certainly grown. Her features were more defined, her clothes weren't tattered anymore. Her skin was clear and her hair was positively shining, and bloody hell, she was the most beautiful sight Killian had ever laid his eyes upon.

 _Swan_.

Killian could do nothing but stare. Her eyes turned worried, as if she couldn't be sure how to judge his reaction. He wasn't even sure himself.

"What are you doing here?" He finally managed to find words matching his bewilderment.

"I... I came here to see you."

He had never seen her like this. So cautious, as if she were dealing with a large dragon not to be angered. She offered a small smile, that little lift of the corner of her mouth. Those gentle green eyes. Killian was taken back to nine years ago. _Nine years_. Back before she left without either a word or a trace, before his mother died, before he lost his hand.

"You came here to see me?" Strength found root in his voice, finding an anger he hadn't imagined. " _Nine years_ , Emma, you left nine years ago without a bloody word, and now you've just _come here to see me_?"

She flinched at his tone but wouldn't look away. It conflicted him to feel the anger racing in his heart when he took in the apology in her eyes. It conflicted him that he could feel such fury at seeing her face, but such joy at the same time.

"I came here to explain," Emma matched his strengthened voice with her own, biting out the words. Her resolve softened after a moment, but she didn't cower. "I understand why you're angry, Killian. I understand if you don't want any explanation, if you don't even care, but that's why I'm here."

Killian couldn't keep her gaze, his eyes flickering away as he gripped the flask tight in his hand. His stump was covered by the long sleeve of his coat. Phantom pains gnawed at him as he tried to make up his mind.

"Why now?" he finally asked.

"Because..." Emma heaved a breath. Behind her armour, Killian could see his own hurt reflected in her eyes. "I should have told you when I left, but I just - it was too much for me, Killian. I tried coming back here four years ago, and I know, that was too late too, but you weren't here, and then..." Emma turned her head to look back at Althea's grave. She bit her lip to hide its trembling and Killian could scarcely bear to look at her. He knew what she was going to say, could feel her grief like a weight added to his own. "I didn't want to believe it... I'm so sorry, Killian."

Emma waited for him to say something, but he had no words. He still couldn't believe that she was there, _Emma_ , more vulnerable than he had ever seen her, apologizing for an ache that had never been her fault. The pain of losing his friend, his mother, _everything_ was raw again. The burden of knowing he had hurt Emma as much as she had hurt him was unbearable. He had been _too much_. He had pushed her to leave.

"I left the charmed bracelet so I could know when you'd come back. So that I could give you the explanation that you deserve, and that's why I'm here now. I wish it could have been nine years ago, but life doesn't work like that."

Killian furrowed his brow.

"How could leaving a bracelet lead you to know when I'd returned?" The bracelet in question burned in his pocket.

Emma's lips parted as if she had realized she had said something she hadn't meant to say.

"I don't think I can tell you that without telling you everything."

"Then do it. Tell me everything."

Several feelings passed through her eyes. Shock. Relief. Uneasiness.

Killian gave her a little nod to let her know he meant it.

Emma's lips remained parted but no words came out. All this talk of giving him an explanation and now she wanted to back out? Was it suddenly _too much_ for her again?

She squeezed her eyes shut and Killian berated himself for his anger. She was trying. And he hardly knew her as someone who failed easily as long as she put her mind to it.

Too busy studying the lines of her face, Killian didn't notice her open palm. Didn't notice until it held a ball of pure light. A ball of... _it couldn't be._

"Emma -"

She opened her eyes to see the light growing in her palm.

"Yeah..." Emma let the light shine brighter for a second before curling her hand and extinguishing it. "I didn't know I could do it, not before -" she paused, searching for words. "The day I left you gave me a bracelet - a charm. You had made it for _me_ and it was so beautiful, Killian," Emma swallowed back words. "I don't know why I kissed you, it just made sense. And that's when it happened - it just sort of flared up inside me, this... _light_. It prickled all over and I thought something had to be wrong, it couldn't be normal. I panicked, Killian. I was scared, and that's when my walls go up. That's when I ran - _why_ I ran.

"I know it was stupid, ironic really, to run away when you and Althea were probably the only people who could actually help me. I just wasn't thinking straight. It was like some monster had woken up inside of me, like it had been sleeping there forever without me knowing."

"You have magic." Killian needed to say the words before he could wrap his head around everything she had said. He was stating the obvious, probably sounding like an utter fool, but as soon as the words left his mouth, it made sense. Like he thought when he first heard her name, it just fit. Emma Swan had magic.

"Yeah."

"And that's why you left - because of magic?"

"Yeah."

"Where did you go?" It was a question that had burnt in his mind for years. It was out of his mouth before he even had time to think of it.

"I snuck onto a boat. I don't really remember where I went first. I kept moving from place to place, working in some different taverns and stuff. Couldn't ever find a place I would miss enough to stay." She paused at that, and Killian tried not to think too hard on what she meant.

"Sometimes I tried learning some things from healers here and there, but I sucked at controlling it in the beginning - I was so scared people would find out or that I'd set something on fire. Or hurt someone."

"You seem to have found your reigns on it now."

"Yeah, I have." A pause. "You know, I kept thinking I saw you in different ports, just glimpsing you and it would flare up like some angry monster - I thought I was going crazy," Emma shook her head at herself. She looked down at her hands and only then did Killian notice the way they quivered.

He nestled the flask between his left arm and his side, tucking his stump into his pocket before she could notice his missing hand. He fumbled for the bracelet in his right pocket.

"I suppose you enchanted this to somehow give you a signal if I ever came back," he nodded at the bead as he held the bracelet between his fingers.

Emma nodded. "When you first touched it two weeks ago I felt it through this," she held up her wrist for him to see the string tied around it, adorned with a bead. She had kept it. The corners of Killian's lips quivered into a small smile. _She had kept it_.

"And here you are." It was a statement as much as a reassurance to himself that his mind wasn't playing games with him.

"And here I am."

Killian ran his thumb over the bead.

"Can you still feel it?"

"A little. It kinda tickles actually."

He ran his thumb over the bead one more time.

Thoughts raced through his head. All the anger had left him, all the blame had disappeared. It left an odd calm and he didn't know what to do with it. His missing hand itched to scratch the back of his neck, but he kept the stump tucked in his pocket.

It was puzzling. For years he had imagined seeing Emma again, imagined the different things he wanted to say to her, ask her of, but now that it had happened, he had no idea what to do. It seemed silly. All these years haunted by a friend who had left because she was scared of her own magic.

When she kissed him nine years ago, he had felt something prickling too. It had stunned him, but he had always thought it was simply Emma. Had it been her magic? Perhaps she _had_ bewitched him after all.

Killian lifted the flask to his mouth. A bit of rum would do him good.

"I liked being your friend, Killian. No matter what, that's what I want you to know. I shouldn't have left you."

The last knot unravelled. Buried deep inside, he had almost forgotten it existed; it had simply been a part of him. His time on the sea passed before his eyes, his own departure after losing his mother. Leaving hadn't been easy, but staying had been impossible.

"You came back."

Nothing else mattered anymore. Killian locked his eyes with Emma, felt the water in his eyes threaten to spill as they did in hers.

"I missed you."

And like that, the knot was gone.

"Bloody hell, Emma, you must know I've missed you as well. For the past many years you've been a ghost in my head, and at times it angered me and I blamed you, but most of all I blamed myself. I should never have given you that bloody bracelet, I thought..." Killian shook his head with a humourless laugh. He could have spoken for hours more, poured out every thought and feeling he had. He didn't need to though. They read each other just as easily as they had nine years ago.

"Care for a drink?" Killian held his flask out to her. His version of an olive branch, he thought dryly.

Emma walked the few paces of distance and accepted the flask with a soft thanks and a quick swig. From the looks of it, she was no stranger to rum herself - she _had_ said she'd spent time working in taverns.

Killian was at once aware of their close proximity. It clouded his mind to have her so close to him, thinking briefly of that moment nine years ago. His throat grew dry and he had to stop himself from parting his lips. He could do with another drink of the rum in her hand.

His left arm jittered. He forgot to think of his stump, didn't realize his mistake until Emma's eyes caught the lacking appendage as he pulled his arm from his pocket. He inwardly cursed himself.

"Killian-" She didn't say anything else, didn't apologize or express pity and Killian was thankful for it. She couldn't mask her concern though.

"It was an accident," he said with an odd simplicity. "The end of my brief life as a sailor. It was the reason I came home though, so I suppose there is justification in that." He couldn't help the bitterness in his words. Mostly he just wished he could forget all about it and have her never see how broken he had become.

Emma gently took hold of Killian's stump. It was as fleeting as it was surprising to Killian. A strange feeling but not uncomfortable. He closed his eyes for the brief moment, his throat growing drier. Once again he had to berate himself. Was he really this unused to a woman being close to him? She wasn't even touching his skin, just softly brushing her hand against the clothed stump.

By the shaking of Emma's breath, warm as it reached his lower face, Killian knew she must have realized how close their proximity really was.

He cleared his throat and spoke, "I suppose you've told me a bit about you, so now I have to tell you more about me. That was the deal, wasn't it? And after I've bored you with all I've learned of ships and sailing, you could tell more interesting tales of magic and taverns."

Emma smiled and Killian was sure he had fallen back in time. "Sounds good to me."

For a moment, Killian thought of leaning down and brushing his lips against hers. It was fleeting though. They both reached out to each other, her with the flask still in hand, him with the bracelet. Their arms wrapped around each other, and each rested their chin on the other's shoulder. Closing his eyes and nestling his nose in her hair, Killian felt a deep longing be released from both of them, a feeling of _missing_ that was finally over.

He hadn't felt so warm in a long time, so content.

A raven perched on the witch's headstone, croaking as the drizzling rain began to seep through Killian's and Emma's hair. They both turned to look at the grave, still in each other's embrace.

"She liked you, you know," Killian spoke with his cheek pressed to Emma's hair. "Always said that someday we would find each other again and all would be well."

"Do you think she knew?"

"Knew what?"

"That I have magic."

"Maybe." Then he laughed, "probably. She was a woman of many secrets, she was. But perhaps magic is meant to be a cloak of mystery," he smiled teasingly at Emma. She smiled back.

* * *

 **Endings are tough and bittersweet. This was always meant to be a short story for practice, and I had no idea how to end it properly, but I hope this was an okay way to do it! (if a bit rushed...) thank you so much to everyone who followed, favourited or commented - it means so much to me! Thanks for reading!**

 **UPDATE** **: after a bit of thinking, I've realized this ending was just too rushed, and I can't live with that. So I've deleted the last 'ending paragraph', but right now I'm not sure how to continue this story. Maybe I'll get an idea for an epilogue some time! for now, I'll leave it as complete though :)**


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